


Balloons, Too, Are Lost

by factsnotfiction



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-02
Updated: 2012-09-02
Packaged: 2017-11-13 09:38:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/502079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/factsnotfiction/pseuds/factsnotfiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry and Draco lose their way, their paths to each other no longer as easy to cross as they were before. When Harry loses his memory, they are both given the chance to gain back something they thought was already gone, or lose it all together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Balloons, Too, Are Lost

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Serpentinelion's HD Glompfest 2012. Many, many thanks to my beta shantismurf who made this the very best that it could be, and to Meggie for her unfailing support and cheerleading. Once again, thank you guys so much for all your help and support. 
> 
> Please note again that this fic contains slash Draco/Harry, and also mentions of previous Harry/Ginny.  
> I hope you all enjoy reading this as much as I did writing it.
> 
> Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.

Harry remembers colour.

He remembers the lush greens of Surrey in spring, the cracking yellow of grass beneath his feet in summer and the sheer impossibility of bright blue skies. Imaginings of cool, soft clouds beneath his fingertips the very foundations of his daydreams. Some days, when the world is quiet and Harry is alone, he dreams he can fly. He remembers gold, far more than just one—of thick, melting honey on cold peaches and the red skin of his cheek after he is caught stealing (he remembers sticky, incriminating lips).

 

He remembers all of this and more but he doesn’t remember _him_ (in fact, he’s forgotten).

\---

It was a pointless fight. So completely stupid, like so many of their arguments are. Draco knows this, tries to stop them from time to time, but Harry has always had the knack of saying the completely wrong thing at the absolutely worst time. When that happens of course, Draco loses all sense of decorum and proceeds to… what was the phrase Harry used? Oh, yes: go bat-shit insane on his arse.

Draco barely remembers what the fight was about. Something to do with the Weasel horde and Ginevra, he is sure. Perhaps the missing of one’s birthday too, but of course Draco is far too old for that petty nonsense. He does, however, remember the slam of their apartment door behind his partner, the creak of the wood as the crack (their _doom_ , he calls it in private) slices even further up the door. Draco traces it over and over with his eyes, his hands most definitely not wringing behind his back. He wonders when the fissure will finally steal right through the top and fracture the door (and them both) in two. Draco was the child who cut into the red skin of balloons, feeling them pop in his hands once they began to droop instead of fly.

Harry was the child who held on tighter.

\---

Harry likes pancakes. Harry likes pancakes, peaches, and words that begin with the letter ‘O’. Harry especially likes ‘O’-shaped pancakes and peaches. Those are his very favourite. The nurses tell Harry that they’re just circles, his ‘O’s, but he doesn’t care. They’re ‘O’s if he wants them to be. It begins like a good day, today. He has a breakfast of ‘O’-shaped pancakes in bed, and the Nice Nurse even sneaks him a packet of syrup. Harry doesn’t like syrup very much because it makes his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth, but she looks so happy that he just hides it inside his pillowcase.

Harry likes making people happy, especially the little ones. After breakfast, the Man in Blue walks him to the children’s room. Harry has never seen the man smile but he tries anyway, making silly faces while Blue guides him to where he wants to go with a supporting hand on his arm. The children are excited when he reaches the room, their smiles lighting up their pale faces from their large hospital beds. Minnie doesn’t smile often, like the Man in Blue. Minnie is pale, and her body is so small under the sheets as Harry sits at the foot of her bed, drawing pictures together on their laps.

Today is one of Minnie’s good days. The nurses don’t sit and watch them, and Minnie doesn’t wince in pain when she thinks he isn't looking. Harry doesn’t blame her for not smiling so much. If he was as sick as she is, he wouldn’t either. Minnie was the very first person he saw when he woke up; she’s his very first friend. There were bright lights and nurses pushing their beds along a long corridor, babbling about things like surgeries, victims, and accidents. Harry doesn’t remember much else about that. But Minnie and Harry are friends, and they colour together. Harry’s drawing pancakes wearing cowboy hats and boots, and Minnie’s drawing drowning sunflowers, when the Loud Man comes.

He is loud from the moment he arrives, and his voice hurts Harry’s ears. He slams the door open and makes odd sniffy noises, blinking his reddened eyes. Harry can see that they are perfect ‘O’s though, and when they reach him, he sees that they are grey, like the colour of the clouds outside for the last week. It’s rained a lot lately. Sometimes Harry wonders where the sun and birds hide.

The man is yelling at the nurses, but he’s staring at Harry like he’s something special. Harry stares out the window like that sometimes, when the rain falls but the sun is still out. ‘Orphan’s tears’, the Nice Nurse calls it.

“Harry?” the Loud Man says, voice suddenly soft. Pale hands are reaching out to him, and they hold Harry tightly, far tighter than he would’ve thought they were capable of. Harry asks Blue to help because he really can’t move, but when he speaks, the Loud Man lets him go. The man isn’t loud anymore when he speaks. His voice is warm, but the smile he had falls quickly. He says Harry’s name over and over again, but Harry doesn’t understand what he wants. What does the Sad Man want him to do? Harry doesn’t know what to do. The Sad Man reaches out to grasp Harry’s hand, but Harry just ignores him. He needs to finish this picture for Minnie. Harry colours the ‘O’s on his paper. Maybe if he made enough of them, they’d make a rainbow. He smiles down at his drawing, blinking in surprise when little ‘O’s drip onto the paper, dark circles of wet from the Sad Man’s eyes. Harry continues to colour.

\---

It is a week after their last fight when they find him. It is a long week, with visits to Granger and the Weasleys and to bloody St Mungo’s, pleading (imagine, a Malfoy) for them to keep an eye out for their Saviour. It’s a known fact that he and Harry are together, but it isn’t the first time that St Mungo’s has denied Draco any contact with Harry. When Harry was injured on the job, Draco didn’t know he was at hospital until he’d been forced to contact Granger, and even then he wasn’t allowed to enter Harry’s room. He wasn’t family, they said. He wasn’t welcome. Maybe they were right.

The worst part of the week was going back to the Manor. Draco Malfoy is not above using dark magic to find what is his. It’s ironic that the spell Harry cast that tore Draco open is what brings Harry back to him. It was a flurry of blood spells and residual magic signatures later that Draco was finally able to find Harry again. Granger was at the Ministry, asking around while Weasley was, well, he wasn’t helping. _“Did you ever stop to think that maybe Harry doesn’t want to be found, Malfoy?”_ Draco didn’t believe that. He couldn’t. Draco spills his blood for Harry (as he’d done before, as he will always do again). Because of a spell from long ago, Harry is his again.

Harry is staying in the psychiatric ward of one of Muggle London’s hospitals.  Draco might be living amongst Muggles now, and he might have grown out of his prejudices, but Draco doesn’t trust them. Draco is scared of the little things that make them so different. He tries to ignore them, but they’re the same little things that he notices in Harry sometimes. Every time Harry rises for a candle when a ‘Lumos’ would have done, he leaves Draco alone in the dark. With every single step, Harry moves further and further away—a battlefield that neither man is strong enough to cross anymore. Draco is tired, so tired of fighting for something that he will only tear apart later and then attempt to sew together again. He wants to save them, save this, but it’s too late isn’t it? It’s been too late for a long, long time.

\---

Draco Days are the best. He brings Harry to the park, and they both sit on benches in front of the pond. The nice nurse, Matilda, even gives the both of them bread to feed the ducks. Harry likes watching the birds, but he thinks Draco just likes watching them all fight. Harry throws some more bread in when Draco isn’t looking for the ones that lose, so everyone's happy in the end. The most perfect days are the ones where Draco buys Harry a balloon—only one and always red. He likes the 'O' shaped ones best, that much Draco knows, but for some reason he likes buying Harry red things. Draco always looks so proud when he does, so Harry can’t bring himself to tell the other man that he much prefers blue. When Draco gets him red anemones, Harry thinks that Draco doesn’t really know him at all. Harry likes lilies much better.

Harry doesn’t remember Draco, but they must have been really good friends for Draco to visit every other day. Harry wonders where Draco goes when they aren’t together. Does he disappear, only to be wished back into existence on Harry Days? Harry feels like that sometimes when Draco isn’t around.  Minnie is here to draw with but she’s been sleeping more and more lately. The last time Harry was allowed to see her, Minnie's admittedly already short hair was buzzed down to her scalp. There were scars underneath the pale white bandages on her small skull, zigzags of stitches and discoloured skin. When Harry asked her if she was sick again, the little girl only shook her head.

"Things have to look worse before they're better, silly," she chastised, staring down at Harry's paper of messy 'O's and mismatched colours, an attempt at a portrait of Draco. Harry shrugged then, and continued colouring though he saw Draco entering the room from the corner of his eye. Better not give Draco his picture just yet. It has to be perfect. Harry has noticed that Draco’s very strict about what’s right and not. He only comes in to visit Harry on Tuesdays and Thursdays, but the other days, all that Draco does is sit where he thinks Harry can’t see him and watch. Harry doesn’t know what he’s looking for when he does that, but maybe that’s not the only reason why he’s looking. Harry thinks Draco’s watching and waiting for something (someone) that may never come back. That’s what Harry’s doctors tell Draco, anyway.

\---

Harry doesn't remember anything. He doesn't remember a thing about Hogwarts, or Gryffindor, or even the stupid war. Draco is at a loss of what to do. He shouts at the doctors and nurses that first day, making a scene in the middle of a whitewashed, hollow hallway with even emptier people. Draco doesn’t think he can bear it if Harry were to become like them—the soulless, he thinks in private (though, maybe _the forgotten_ would be more appropriate).

“Fix him! Why can’t you just— fix him!” he shouts, nurses flanking his sides to restrain him with gentle but insistent hands. “It’s your job to fix him! You— you can’t just leave him like this.” When the nurses finally coax him back from hysterics, one of the doctors speaks, his eyes hidden behind reflective glasses. Draco has never liked glasses like that. He needs to see their eyes—to read them for what they are to do next, because eyes aren’t the windows of the soul. No, to Draco the eyes are the maps. Draco refuses to speak to him.

Draco remembers one thing and one thing alone about the new doctor that is sent to reason with him: his green eyes hold such passion and fire for his patients as the older man forces Draco to lower his voice with a strict hand on his arm. Draco’s eyes slip closed for a brief second, strong fingers pressing into his flesh. He hasn’t been touched in weeks (Draco couldn’t ask, and Harry wouldn’t give in).

“Mr Malfoy.” The voice is low and quiet, but it calls for attention and obedience, much like Harry’s does—did—sometimes. “The Harry you know is gone. He was left on the side of that road, and you may never get him back. All that either of us can do now is help the Harry that’s left. The new Harry.” The _new_ Harry. How easy must it be to feign indifference? Normalcy? Draco is all too familiar with lies and facades. The new Harry Potter, they’ll say, but Draco knows what they’re all really thinking. The broken Harry Potter. The man who finally lost.

The hardest part is looking into those familiar eyes (the very ones he’s hated, loved, and lost) and knowing every minute of everything they’d ever shared, while Harry knows nothing. He doesn’t remember meeting a rude boy who reminded him of his cousin when he was eleven years old. He doesn’t remember train rides, enchanted ceilings or brilliant castles. He’s forgotten years of petty hexes and bloody noses by the same hands. Lost too is a greater evil that tried year after year to kill him, an evil that was far larger than petty jinxes. The memories of blood and tears spilled in a second floor girls’ bathroom are gone, and curses, Unforgivable or not, are figments of nightmares that he can’t quite catch. Death’s toys and a whitewashed train station are lost, along with shy tentative smiles and a handshake long deserved.

But Draco remembers. He remembers everything from the embarrassment of a trip jinx to the shame of an Imperius curse and the pain of a stinging hex to that of the Cruciatus. He remembers the colour of Harry’s eyes, green like that of an Avada Kedavra, filled with as much fury and passion as the curse requires to cast. Draco is slain, over and over again through years of bright greens and every curse but that one. He remembers (will never forget) that first night with too rough hands that pushed him up against the stone wall of the returning eighth years’ common room. Their friends (enemies, allies and martyrs alike) were just upstairs and they both knew a single shout would be enough to bring them running. But they both stayed still, bodies pressed impossibly close.  Impossible because Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter cannot be friends, have never been, and they most definitely cannot be this; yet here they found themselves.

_“Scared, Malfoy?”_

Yes.

_“You wish.”_

Harry’s eyes were so close, so green, and oh, Draco has always known that he could die in them. When their mouths finally touched (Draco never knows who leaned in first, but he’d like to think it was them both), it was slow, hard and bruising. Their teeth clashed in a quiet fury, lips bitten and tongues tangling, fighting with weapons that were previously unknown.

Draco remembers every fight, every torrent of words that were sharpened to hurt and maim. He remembers when reality began to creep into their vision. When Draco began slipping out of bed in the early mornings just so he wouldn’t have to face Harry and the fact that the only reason they still shared the same bed was to keep Harry’s nightmares at bay. Touches were no longer sought, but instead signs of habit like a kiss on a cold cheek upon greeting or sharing comfort in the night, consolation the only thing that drove their actions forward and their bodies together tightly. The only kisses they shared were those of anger, apology, or resignation, their bodies still so attuned to each other, though their hearts no longer seemed to align. He tried to pretend that he didn’t know where Harry was going when he left their home in the middle of the afternoon on the weekends, that he was heading straight for the Burrow—his real family—and leaving Draco with nothing more than the cool side of the bed, his lover’s shape still etched upon it in an echo of what was once there.

\---

Harry gets Draco to colour with him and Minnie once. His drawings are unlike Minnie’s or his own, colours blending together with dark shapes in the background. A man, Draco said it was, with bright green jets of colour seeming to shoot from the shadow man’s fingers. Harry thinks he must be a very bad man indeed. Ron’s drawings have no shadows, stick figures of happy families in front of large houses and too much uncoloured space. Hermione’s are technically perfect, he supposes, with all colours in their dictated places, but he knows she’s only colouring because she thinks he wants her to. Molly is always too busy fussing over him to colour, and Arthur just brings in little trinkets in hopes of jogging his memory. Harry might have amnesia, but he hasn’t forgotten everything.

_“Now, tell me, what exactly is the function of a rubber duck?”_

George brings him things, too. Sweets that make him sneeze and things called Pygmy Puffs that Molly doesn’t let him keep. Harry thinks George must be some sort of mad scientist. Ginny’s drawings are pretty, fantastical snapshots of people holding hands in the sky as they fly, or hugging by what looks like an enchanted forest. Harry pins the drawings to the cork board above his bed, for the entire world to see. Draco doesn’t colour with him again.

He overhears Hermione and Draco fighting once—angry, hissed whispers in the corner of the room when they think he’s not paying attention. “They’re Muggles,” Draco begins, pale cheeks getting red and splotchy as they do when he’s upset. “They won’t know how to care for him. What if he loses control? Shattering vases and spontaneously combusting objects isn’t exactly normal Muggle behaviour.”

Hermione’s tone raises sharply, slightly shrill as she argues back, “Would you rather him be in the Janus Thickey ward? You know just as well as I do what it’s like there. Wi— Our world knows far less about the mind, and healing it, than the Muggles do. This is the best facility available, Draco, and I understand you’re worried about him, but are you prepared to lose him just because of your narrow-minded prejudices? Because I, for one, am not!” And that was the end of that.

When the Weasleys are around, when anyone is really, Draco just sits and watches them. He pretends to look busy, manila folders in his lap, but his eyes are distracted, and he’s not quite all there. But he almost always looks up when another enters the room, when Harry speaks, or even when Ginny laughs just a little too loudly. Harry has a feeling that Draco doesn’t get along with people very well, except himself and Minnie, though they too had a rocky start.

When Draco first met her, his anger was almost tangible as he stormed up to the bed, scattering crayons, grey eyes narrowing into slits as he spit out, “Look at what you’ve done,” gesturing at Harry with all the possessed anger his grey eyes could hold. Harry hadn’t understood, not really, even as the indignant nurses forced him to either calm down or leave entirely. Draco left, and he didn’t look back.

The feeling that had risen in the very pit of Harry’s stomach was one that, for some reason, he knew had been very familiar in the past—this hollowness in the very core of himself. It reminded him of the one time the Dursleys had allowed Harry to accompany them on one of their weekend trips to the amusement park. It felt like sitting at the very tip of the Viking boat ride: that one split second where it’s almost suspended in mid-air, at the very top of the world, and you don’t know if you’re going to fly or fall.

Minnie was quiet for a moment after that, her small fists bunched in the off-white bed sheets of the hospital bed as her eyes shone with tears. A little while later, she’d sobbed so hard Harry had to take her in his arms.  “I’m sorry,” she said in a small voice, proving that no matter how mature she might seem, how much she has seen and lived, she is still a child and children cry.

The next time Draco visited, Harry got into a loud argument with him that brought the nurses and doctors alike running. How could he say something like that to a child? They had screamed at each other, obscenities and anger making them both see red. It wasn’t until after the nurses gave Draco yet another ultimatum that they both calmed, sitting beside each other on Harry’s narrow hospital bed.

“We were children once,” Draco said, voice quiet beneath the low hum of the hospital. “A long time ago. I’ve forgotten what it was like.” Harry found that strange, for they were both still young, he supposed, at the age of twenty-two. What was it then, this old, tired weariness he felt in his bones sometimes, like he’d lived a thousand lifetimes and seen too many friends die? Harry was still angry with Draco, of course he was, but the quiet sadness that filled him was enough for the anger to quell and make his hand reach out to rest gently on Draco’s shoulder. Draco laughed bitterly, a weak laugh as his pale hands clenched and twisted in his lap. “We faced much worse when we were children. Those... _words_ could kill us. That— that was nothing.”

“They’re still all words,” Harry replied quietly. “And words hurt.”

Grey eyes sought his. “Look what she’s done to you. You don’t remember me at all, do you, Harry? You’re not just pretending because you’re angry with me. I might never get you back now. You don’t know who I am but I— I don’t think I know you either.” His gaze dropped to the white knuckled fists on his thighs. “I guess I haven’t for a long time.” He sighed. “Who would’ve thought that a little girl would be the one to defeat the Boy Who Lived? Oh, I bet the Dar— _Voldemort_ , is kicking around somewhere in hell,” he scoffed, though his voice was watery with something that Harry couldn’t quite yet place. “She had to run out into the road, didn’t she? Stupid— _stupid_ girl. I’ve lost you just because she wanted a fucking balloon.”

It didn’t take long for Harry to understand but when he did, it was a good feeling, finally knowing what so many of the nurses had probably been attempting to hide whenever he coloured with the little girl. He couldn’t find it in himself to be angry with Minnie, and the remnants of his anger at Draco faded into a quiet understanding. “It’s not her fault,” he murmured. “I would’ve done the same for anyone. For you.” Draco dropped his head into his hands, shoulders trembling slightly beneath Harry’s fingertips.

“You’ll never get it, will you? Stupid Gryffindor. I don’t want you to risk your life for anybody, least of all me. I want you fucking safe, Harry. I want you safe and happy but if I have to choose, I’d rather you be guilty and alive than die a hero.” His voice was tense and tight in a way Harry hadn’t heard. He didn’t understand what a Griffin had to do with much of anything, but he knew an insult when he heard one. He didn’t reply, simply rubbing little ‘O’s into Draco’s back. His aunt did that for him once, a long time ago, right in the middle of a storm that Dudley slept through but that made him cry. Harry supposes all people have moments where they are so completely human—raw in their emotions and so young in their attempts to help others. As they sat together, a man who had forgotten and another who wanted to, Harry thought they just might be the most human humans who have ever lived.

\---

“Come home with me.” It’s not a question, Draco knows that, but he never has quite been able to ask Harry important things for fear of being rejected. He doesn’t think Harry has caught on quite yet about that, but his partner was fairly oblivious about the things that were right in front of him; especially with things that concerned Draco. They are at the pond again, the infernal balloon that Harry always insists on getting bobbing in the air between them. Draco has never liked the damn things, far too easy to lose and impossible to catch again. Harry’s bare feet are splashing gently in the water; he’s laughing as the tiny fishes gather around his feet only to swim away and return between kicks.

“Are you asking me or are you ordering me, Draco?” Harry asks, voice teasing and green eyes alight as he glances up from the water to grin at him. Draco is sure they both hear his breath catch, but if Harry does he says nothing about it. They haven’t spoken like this in months, light and teasing, their words holding absolutely no consequence. He snorts, lying on his back and gazing up at the sky. It’s an impossible notion, Draco knows, but colours seem brighter with Harry around. His eyes slip closed. He’s been living in grey for far too long.

“Of course I’m asking. Contrary to popular belief, you do have a choice in matters you know.”

“Then ask me.”

“I did.”

“No, you didn’t. You told me to, and then said I had the choice, Draco. Now ask me, you... Gryffindor.” Draco’s eyes blink open in surprise even as Harry chortles, obviously quite pleased with himself. His eyebrows rise in amusement. “Well, you called me one and it didn’t sound very nice so I figured it was only fair.”

Draco laughs in a way that he only ever did with Harry, and only with the Harry before things began to fade. It’s a nice laugh, and one of the only things that he’s ever truly liked about himself. He’s missed it.

“You’re right. Some think Gryffindor is synonymous with stupid, but I am not a Gryffindor, Harry, you are.” Harry rolls his eyes, kicking hard into the water and positively drenching Draco’s trousers, all with a proud little smirk. “Honestly, Harry!”

The perpetrator only laughs gleefully. “Ask me!”

Draco huffs. “Do you want to come live with me, Harry Potter?”

There’s a momentary pause, and Draco’s heart leaps into his throat, before— “Why not?”

“That’s not a real answer!”

\---

Packing has been a fairly easy affair. Harry has quite a bit of crafts that Draco takes from him and seems to just vanish, returning from regular coffee breaks with empty hands. The other man also brings him a change of clothes: well-worn jeans and a dark maroon jumper, practically threadbare with use. “These were your favourite,” he murmurs, pale fingers smoothing the cords of the soft material between his fingers.

“I like them,” Harry says with a small smile. The little things, he’s found, make him feel more like himself, like wearing the same clothes, the achingly familiar feeling of the fabric on his skin, to simply being with Draco. Harry likes being with Draco.

He is pulling the drawings from the corkboard when he notices the other man’s slightly overcast eyes. “Alright?”

Draco looks up at him quickly from where he’s looking at Ginny’s drawing of the two people holding each other, dropping it back on the pile, nodding. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Harry doesn’t answer but he figures Draco wouldn’t want him to anyway. His friend is a little odd that way. Draco’s eyes remain shuttered, as they do when something has upset him; walls of concrete seem to slam down in his very irises, preventing anyone from coming in, or Draco from getting out. Harry finishes up with the drawings on his cork board quickly, sliding down to dig beneath his pillows for the crumpled piece of paper—

“Here it is. Can’t believe I almost forgot it.” Harry smoothed the mainly black and green drawing on top of the stack, Draco remaining stock still by his side. When he speak his voice is quieter, softer, a secret whisper. “This one’s my favourite,” he says, fingertips lingering across the page, across shadows and bright green lights. “It’s ours.”

Draco smiles.

\---

The girl is fairly endearing for a child. Harry forced him to apologize of course, after his... outburst, and lately they’ve been on good terms. Draco’s never had a younger sibling, but he’s always wanted a sister, and he’s found himself giving her little trinkets every time he goes to visit. On their last day, he gives her one of his mother’s bracelets from her younger days; sterling silver braided cords with an ornate hook keeping it all in place. “For catching balloons and dreams,” he says, and Minnie smiles her beautiful, sunny smile. Draco can’t help but promise to visit, and he is sure that there will be no living with Harry, that smug prat, after this.

“Why don’t I get presents?” Harry teases as they leave.

“You get to be in the presence of my fabulous self. Isn’t that enough?” Draco asks, but Harry’s eyes are intent, his mouth twisted into a shy smirk that makes Draco’s face heat. Oh, there really will be no living with Harry after this.

They leave the hospital after signing off on ridiculous forms that, if Draco is being honest, he doesn’t really understand. Harry’s face, his sigh of happiness as they emerge into the bustling street of London, is a beautiful thing to behold, and Draco’s heart flutters in his chest. Now comes the hard part. He doesn’t really know how to get them home except by apparition. Harry was always the one to take care of cabbies and the fare. Draco doesn’t even have any Muggle money on him. It’s surprising really, to see how much Draco relies on Harry once he’s gone.

He pulls them both into the alleyway beside the hospital, Harry giving him an incredulous look, mouth opening to undoubtedly question his sanity. Draco has begun to doubt it himself.  “Wait, just wait. This is going to sound a bit much, and like I’m taking the piss, but I’m not, honest.” He bites his lip nervously.

“You’re a wizard, Harry.”

And with a spin and tugs from the middle of their tummies, the two men disappear.

            Harry doesn’t have the chance to process Draco’s words before they’re spinning, and before he knows which way is up, he’s face first on a hardwood floor, nauseated and feeling like he’s been cut up into a million pieces only to be thrown back together again. It takes long muffled moments before he finally registers Draco’s worried hands on his shoulders; grey eyes centimetres from his own. Harry attempts to speak, his mouth parting, but only a low groan escapes him. Draco’s fingers clench into his skin and he can tell that he’s nervous, but he very well should be, because Harry feels like he’s dying.

 

“I suppose I should speak now while you can’t. Um, Harry, you’re a wizard. We both are, and we’ve just Apparated, which is how we travel. You’ve never been particularly comfortable with it, but don’t worry, the side effects will pass soon. Just take deep breaths through your n—”

 

“Libby is taking Master Draco’s bags?” There’s a sudden pause then, a quiet between all parties before a sudden explosion of—

 

“Wh— What the fuck is _that_!?”

 

“No, Harry! It’s okay, it’s okay, she’s just a house elf!”

 

“Master Harry back! Is Master Harry being okays now? Libby is getting Master’s favourite tea!”

 

Harry continues to stare wide-eyed at the little creature pouring tea for them, abnormally long fingers gesturing around as little saucers and teacups appear from oblivion. His eyes, if possible, only widen. He suspected that everyone who visited him was hiding something, but he sure as hell didn’t expect this. A whole other world that Harry’s being welcomed into; or maybe he was simply consumed by it, magic and urban living swallowing him whole. But as Draco spells balloons from the tip of his wand (a _wand_ ) in demonstration, he thinks that maybe this isn’t that bad at all. Libby serves them sweet, sticky pastries, his favourite, both Draco and Libby says, and Harry can’t help but agree.

 

“Tell me,” he says finally to a tense Draco sitting across the living room from him. Draco grins and obliges.

 

They talk for a long time—until Harry’s brain is full of fantastical, impossible things, filling him to the brim till he doesn’t think he can take anymore just quite yet. Draco sends him off eventually when he notices Harry’s frequent wincing from the pounding headache that threatens to break right through his skull. He’s forced to drink a disgusting purple... pain relieving _potion_ Draco called it.  Harry would be a little more suspicious about what he was putting into his mouth, but exhaustion has lulled him into a truly sorry state. Draco guides him to bed, murmuring quietly that he’ll only be in the other room if he needs anything, sleeping on the couch. He tries to protest, but well, Draco does know how to get his way.

 

It’s weird, sleeping in a place that he knows should be familiar, should be filled with enough memories to make it home, and yet it feels no better than sleeping in the crappy beds at the hospital. He shifts in bed, knowing that Draco is only a room away, but still restless from the events of the day, his brain still swirling with stories of Hogwarts, Quidditch, and Gryffindor (You _prat_!), Slytherin, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff, to name a few.

 

He slips a hand underneath his pillow; gripping the wand (his _wand_ ) that Draco gave him, the wood smooth and familiar under his fingertips. Draco showed him a couple of spells.  The colour bursting from the tips of their wands was bright and left a scent like the air right before a storm, the moment before lightning strikes. Harry closes his eyes, flares of coloured light flashing behind his eyelids and piercing through his temples, not unlike the spells that Draco showed him today. Harry might not know a lot about anything anymore, but he does know that his nightmares are beginning to make a little more sense now.

 

\---

 

Draco has never in his life, not once, slept on a couch. He’s just not the couchtype. Even when he and Harry got into arguments that lasted days or even sometimes weeks at a time, Harry would be the one to take the couch. It was an unspoken thing. Draco beats the uncomfortable, lumpy cushion with vehemence. Why didn’t Harry say anything about this bloody backbreaking sofa? Maybe if he had, Draco wouldn’t be stuck in this ridiculous situation. Draco is going to buy another sofa tomorrow morning, if it’s the very last thing he does. He settles down soon enough, staring up at the ceiling with unseeing eyes. He misses Harry, even though he’s only in the other room. Draco’s just never noticed the things that Harry did for him, all of them going unthanked and unacknowledged, and yet Harry never stopped, even when they were fighting. Sometimes especially so.

 

His eyes tear, but he doesn’t have the chance to shed them when a quiet voice calls to him from the darkness. “Dr— Draco?” He scrambles quickly for his wand, spelling a quick ‘Lumos’ that makes Harry scamper backwards against the wall, eyes red and cheeks wet. Draco’s heart twists painfully in his chest as Harry whimpers, fear etched into the very contours of his face. “No— No, please!”

 

Draco rises quickly, instantly stepping closer to Harry in an attempt to comfort, only to rear back in uncertainty as Harry shies away from his touch, whimpering and crying pitifully when the light of his Lumos gets too close. It takes a moment for him to connect the dots, but when he does Draco doesn’t spare a thought about his wand as he throws it carelessly on the floor, the light of his spell blinking out and sending them into darkness. Harry is in his arms in an instant. The darkness that envelops them is warm and comforting, but nothing to the comfort of Harry’s body against his own, the feel of his love’s fists drawing him always closer. Draco feels the thin fabric of his shirt begin to soak through with Harry’s tears, his fingers running gently through the dark, unruly hair. “You’re okay, Harry. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

 

\---

 

Harry wakes in bed, lost in Draco’s arms. It’s not the most pleasant feeling in the world, both being pressed together too tightly and having rid themselves of blankets and covers during the night rather than shifting apart. But it’s Draco, and he’s never felt quite so safe. Harry thinks that’s more than a fair trade. Besides, he doesn’t think he’d give it up for the world, this chance to watch Draco rest, his face open and defenceless in a way Harry’s sure Draco would hate. He’s unable to keep himself from running reverent fingertips up and down Draco’s soft cheeks, feeling the rise and fall of his chest next to him, and the slow breaths warming his wrist. He’s beautiful.

 

And then it hits Harry all at once like a tonne of chocolate frogs (something he’s very much interested in trying): undoubtedly sweet, most definitely sticky and maybe even slightly unpleasant, but still insanely, impossibly, wonderful. They’re together. Harry is with Draco and they’re _together_ together. He’s sure they’re best friends, and how could they not be? They get along swimmingly, and oh, this must be their apartment too—their home. Harry muffles an excited laugh into a pillow. That means that these are their pillows, their bed! Their _bed_. Harry’s cheeks heat, even as he raises shy eyes to a still sleeping Draco, a gentle thumb brushing across the other man’s soft mouth. But perhaps most importantly, Harry is Draco’s, and Draco is his. Harry’s never had anything so precious before.

 

\---

 

 

Draco does not like people in their home, period. It has absolutely nothing to do with redheads or blood status, contrary to what Harry believed. Draco has had enough strangers in his home at the Manor to last a lifetime, thank you very much. But this time, Draco can’t bring himself to deny Harry the right to see his Weasley horde in his own home, which is why he is currently, _begrudgingly,_ preparing hors d’oeuvres for the pack of weasels about to infiltrate their flat. They might be being fussed over, and Draco thinks he can even hear him laughing. Draco’s fingers relax their hold on a particularly stubborn shrimp, a small smile lighting his features. He’s glad.

 

Libby eventually shoos him out of her kitchen, a preposterous idea of course, but she insists that he go and socialize. Draco is courteous, if not a little cold, even when Ron and Hermione corner him in an attempt to deliver a very well deserved apology.

 

“Draco, Ron and I, yes, we both want to apologise. We weren’t sure how Harry would do, going home with you, especially since both of you have been— um...”

 

“On rocky terms,” Ronald offers and Hermione nods eagerly, clearly grateful.

 

“Yes, exactly, before his accident. But we were wrong. He’s doing brilliant and he’s so happy. Thank you so—”

 

Draco can’t stand a second more of this Hufflepuffian dribble. “I didn’t do it for you, Hermione, or for you, Ronald. You don’t have to thank me. I actually do care for him, you realise, and he is important to me. Maybe the next time you apologise to someone, the both of you could be a bit less self-absorbed and at least attempt not to hide an insult within it. Now if you’ll excuse me, it appears that your brother has charmed my house elf pink.”

 

\---

 

Harry is excited to see the Weasleys again; especially George, and he can’t seem to stop smiling, especially with his delightful discovery of his affections that morning, one that he has yet to tell anyone, including Draco. The Weasleys colour in Harry’s memories, picking up right from Madame Malkin’s with Draco, their first meeting on platform nine and three-quarters, and a flying blue Ford Anglia. They speak of happier times, and a laugh or a smile is never far from any of their faces. Draco isn’t anywhere to be seen, of course, but Harry doesn’t mind. He knows Draco isn’t particularly comfortable in a crowd, and he’s more than aware that this, in its entirety, is for him. Harry has never felt warmer.

 

They’ve broken into smaller groups of conversation, reminiscing of more personal encounters that Harry doesn’t, but desperately wants to, remember. It’s only when Ginny sits herself down next to him that he realises that there might be a reason that he maybe shouldn’t want to. “He hasn’t told you a thing you wouldn’t want to hear, has he?” she says, but she doesn’t sound malevolent. Instead, she simply sounds resigned, if not a little sad. “You don’t know a thing about the war.”

 

So she tells him. She tells him about a broken boy, a mad man, and a dark lord: Voldemort. She tells him about every single time he tried to kill Harry in such excruciating detail that he wonders if she was there. She only laughs and says that no, she wasn’t, not for all of them anyway. She tells him about a little girl who was rescued by her hero, and how she fell in love with him. Ginny seems to grow before his eyes as she tells him about battle after battle and having to wait for him where it’s safe. She says he taught her how to fight, but she was the one who chose to when it mattered.

 

\---

 

Draco is sitting on the Very Uncomfortable Sofa, as it has been dubbed, and revelling in the lack of gingers in his home when he’s blindsided by a surprisingly, _scarily_ , calm Harry. His lover (though he isn’t sure of anything anymore) sits next to him, leaning into Draco, his head buried in his shoulder. Draco’s hand instantly goes to Harry’s hair, combing through the messy strands with an exasperated affection he has with little else.

 

“Tell me about the war,” Harry says, and Draco’s heart stills in his chest. He should’ve expected this. How could he not have, when Harry had lived and fought in the war far more than anyone, save perhaps Dumbledore? How did Draco possibly think he could protect Harry from this? He never could have after all. They couldn’t have protected each other during the war even if they had wanted to. Harry couldn’t keep his parents from the Dementor’s kiss after the fact; he’d barely saved Draco as it was. Draco can only hold Harry after the screams of his nightmares have filled the air, offering what little comfort he can provide. He can’t stop them, can’t save Harry from them. Who was he to think he could have kept Harry’s knowledge of the war completely?

 

They talk for a long time—Voldemort’s attacks and Harry’s unlikely survival from that very first Halloween—and he knows that he gets some of the details wrong. It’s difficult thinking you’ve known something for so long, only to be told straight from the source that all you’ve ever believed is wrong. So Draco tells Harry both versions: what his father told him, and later, what Harry did. They’re both right in different ways; that Draco will never be uncertain of.  When Draco finally finishes it’s midnight, and they’re both stretched out along the Only Slightly Uncomfortable Sofa.

 

“We won though,” Harry murmurs, quietly asking for reassurance.

 

“You did,” he chuckles softly, albeit a little weakly. When Harry tilts his head up and their eyes meet, his green gaze is so fierce with conviction that Draco shivers. He’d been wrong, so dreadfully wrong to ever believe that Harry could ever be any less passionate, any less willing to fight for what he believes in, accident or no.

 

“ _No_ , Draco. _We_ did.” And when Harry says it like that, Draco can’t quite find it in himself not to believe him.

 

\---

 

Weeks pass with nights lit only by candlelight, warm mornings, and days filled with the coming and goings of the Weasleys and Harry’s other friends that he still can’t quite remember. Libby and Draco are happiest when there are no visitors in the house, Draco especially, and they begin to rebuild the foundations of a magical castle that Harry has forgotten. They start small, with little spells, reintroducing Harry to the eleven years of himself that he’s lost.

 

Libby builds little obstacle courses for a balloon as Harry attempts to guide it while Draco supervises. Draco of course, thinks the whole thing is hilarious, especially when Harry accidentally explodes a vase Molly apparently gave to him as a Christmas present two years before, with a careless flick of his wand. “Don’t worry,” Draco laughs, ruffling Harry’s hair with an almost brotherly sort of fondness. “You hated that vase anyway.”

 

Harry might have hated that vase, but he hates this almost unbridgeable gap between Draco and him a damn sight more. Harry’s cheeks are red most of the time, like permanent sunburn. He’s tried to, on more than one occasion, attempt to insinuate his growing feelings for Draco, but it appears that the blond is completely oblivious to the things right before his eyes, especially where Harry is concerned. It’s when Draco blatantly runs from the bedroom when Harry returns from the shower clad only in a towel that Harry decides on a more direct approach. Anything less obvious would be lost on him. Maybe Draco is more of a Gryffindor than he thinks.

 

It’s late in the evening when Harry and Draco slip into bed, the latter having grabbed their customary candle and matches in preparation for the nightmares. But not tonight. Harry is quiet even as Draco makes light conversation, their companionship and camaraderie easy.

 

“Did I have nightmares every night before too?” he asks, genuinely curious, sliding into Draco’s embrace as they both pull the covers up over them.

 

“Yeah, you did, but most times you wouldn’t wake up and I could only hold you through it. To be honest, I don’t think I did anything for you. I thought I did, before, but now I’m not so sure. You just got used to it, like you’re getting used to it now. You’re fighting the nightmares on your own, Harry. I’m just here to man the candle, if not for a little emotional support.”

 

Harry’s cheeks heat, but the warmth that burns him from the inside out is far hotter, this overwhelming emotion that makes his heart threaten to burst through his chest. Here, he wants to say, just take it. It’s yours already, anyway. Harry pushes himself up on his elbows so that he’s looking down at Draco, his blush bright enough to see even in the darkness. “Draco, I— I’m lucky to have you. Then, too, but especially now.” He watches as Draco’s eyes widen, a flush reflecting his own appearing across the bridge of Draco’s nose. “I think I love you, Draco.”

 

There’s a sharp intake of breath as Draco’s breathing hitches, hands curving along Harry’s shoulders. Draco’s brow is furrowed, and Harry can’t take another moment more. He can feel Draco’s uncertainty, his mouth already parting to speak. But Harry just presses their bodies together, the warmth between them (in them) doubling until it’s barely containable.

 

“Please, Draco, not now. We have time for talking, so much time, Draco. Just— please.” A hand slides into Harry’s hair, a thumb caressing his cheek, his eyes slipping closed as he leans into the touch. Every single brush of skin feels like their bodies are sinking into each other until they can no longer be told apart. Like melting crayons on a radiator, Draco fills his world with colour. And oh, when Draco’s lips finally touch his, Harry doesn’t think he’s ever known anything quite like this. It’s not world-altering or life-changing, and Draco uses a bit too much teeth, but Harry wouldn’t give it up for the world.

 

They kiss, mouths parted in the slow tangle of tongue as they trade breaths and a secret: the secret of secrets inside him that nobody knows—that he is Draco’s once again; that he always will be. Their bodies move together as hands move across heated flesh, undressing each other, hanging up their armour and their weapons until only they remain, further and deeper than skin and disguise.

 

Their bodies and breaths intertwine, familiar and yet new enough for Harry’s pulse to flutter nervously beneath his skin. As they slide together, Harry’s skin flushed from pleasure, he knows that they won’t fail—they can’t, not when they feel like this. Harry and Draco push together, and against each other, with such fervour and single-minded stubbornness that there really was no way that they could have ever fought this—them. And soon Harry is coming, pleasure searing through his veins and branding his insides, every vein and every artery, the caverns of his heart especially, with Draco’s name. He spills himself between their bodies, and Draco joins him moments later, their bodies continuing to rock through their rapture.

 

Harry collapses by Draco’s side, arms instantly rising to hug him close, his cheek pressed against his love’s chest. He’s sticky and a little uncomfortable, but he’s sated, and he doesn’t think he’s ever been quite this happy. A small smile adorns his features as he feels all too familiar lips press into his damp hair. He mumbles happily, sliding even closer. “Mmm. Don’t you wizards have a spell for this mess?” he mutters, voice lazy as he pokes Draco’s calf with his foot, minimal movement required. He hears Draco snort, and with a wave of a hand, they’re clean again. “Ah, I thought so.” Harry hums, sleep loosening his tongue, though his words are slightly slurred.

 

“Shut up and go to sleep, Harry,” is the last thing he hears, but that’s all right. He hears Draco’s smile in it anyway.

 

\---

 

Draco remembers Harry’s lips, his colour, the taste of his name on his lover’s lips, a flavour that hasn’t touched his tongue in too long. His arms are wrapped around Harry, the foolish Gryffindor sound asleep in his embrace as Draco’s eyes trace patterns on the ceiling in an attempt to keep them from straying to Harry’s sleeping face. This is the first night Draco can remember in the past year in which neither of them has woken during the night from nightmares. It’s also the first time in a long time that they have touched each other from sheer need, stemming purely from what they feel for each other. The love they feel for each other, he supposes. But it’s all wrong, all warped with Draco’s lack of disclosure of the full truth. Harry doesn’t know the real Draco—the Draco who fought with Harry from before about anything and everything, if only as a way for his love to speak to him again.

 

Harry doesn’t remember the bad times, the times when they could barely be in each other’s company, least of all sleep in the same bed. Harry doesn’t remember the nights that he struggled through his nightmares alone on the couch, wanting comfort but being far too proud to ask. He’ll never know that Draco sat in the doorway, not far away and yet too far to cross, always hoping that Harry would be the one to bridge the distance so he wouldn’t have to.

 

Draco knows this, this so completely selfish side of himself that Harry knows nothing about, and yet he’d still allowed—still allowed—Draco can’t breathe. Their bodies are so close, their warmth sinking into each other and stifling his breathing. Draco doesn’t think he can stand one more moment of this guilt, of having taken advantage of whom he loves most. Draco pulls away from Harry, careful not to wake him, and leaves him alone in bed as he has done so too many mornings before.

 

\---

 

Harry wakes with a smile, until he feels the chill beginning to sink into his side, and the absence of his lover is far too prominent to be missed. His eyes blink open, no matter how much he wishes them to stay closed just so he won’t have to face this. Not yet, not so soon after last night. Draco has left him again, like all the other times before. Harry actually thought last night was different. It wasn’t because he needed comfort for some nightmare. He actually thought that they both wanted this, this new beginning: Draco and Harry’s fresh start.

 

Tears prick his eyes and he knows he’s being ridiculous, a grown man crying in bed, but he doesn’t know if he can do it anymore. This sitting and waiting, always waiting for either of them to snap and break, to decide that this will be the time that they decide not to come back, not to continue. Harry doesn’t know if that’ll ever happen, and maybe that’s even worse. They’re both too caught, too enthralled in each other and more than a little obsessed with the way that only the other can make them feel. Harry lives for the good times with Draco, for the kisses snuck in coffee shops, and for the intertwined hands, ever since that first kiss all those years ago in a school of broken children, fractured soldiers too unfamiliar with victory.

 

Harry has never shed a tear during these past few months, when things have been growing from bad to worse, as Draco seemed to slip further and further from his fingers with each passing morning. But he does cry now. Harry cries because for the first time in a long time, he believed in them, for who they are, for what they have for each other. He’s been relying on their need for each other, their surely unhealthy dependence that makes separation hard and survival impossible. Harry wanted them together for them and nothing else, but Draco ran. He ran because he always does and maybe that’s what hurts the most; that he was so close to catching Draco, that one impossible balloon, but that even with his one last good jump, Draco was still too far away to reach.

 

“Harry?” A voice, the last one he’d thought to hear, and Harry looks up in surprise, his tears running rivulets down his cheeks. Draco shifts uncertainly in the doorway, still clad only his skin.

_Hang up your pride,_ Harry wants to say. _Hang up who you thought you were and who you were taught to be. Hang it all up and come here. Bring me your worries, your insecurities. Let me finally see who you are. It’s been so long that I’ve forgotten._

Harry wants to say all that and more but Draco already knows. Draco already knows everything Harry wants to say because Harry’s said it all before, he just wasn’t listening. Draco steps forward eventually, what feels like hours later, the beginning of that bridge he’s never had the strength to cross, the same one that Harry has crossed all too many times.

 

And when Draco is finally back on the bed, in that very same spot he vacated hours ago, Harry finally feels like he’s been returned something he’d lost. Harry’s hands draw Draco close, a sigh slipping from his lips that says, Finally, finally. Welcome home, Draco.

 

His love sniffs, tears drawing tracks down pale cheeks as he pulls away only to say softly, “You remember.”

 

Huh. So he does.

 

But they don’t celebrate the sudden returning of all his memories, as the doctors had told them could happen. This is so much more than that. The memories don’t matter: where they’ve been to where they could go, will go. So what if Harry remembers colours and their very first kiss? There will be so many better kisses (hopefully with much less teeth). Far prettier, deeper colours are waiting to be found in the contours of Draco’s body, in the depths of his eyes, and in his smile. There are far more vital things than the exact words that were shouted in an argument, like the bright ‘O’s of colour in Draco’s cheeks when Harry kisses him without warning, or the taste of fresh summer peaches on his love’s tongue, and feeding each other pancakes in bed. There are far more important things than losing balloons, like trying to catch them or watching them come back.

 


End file.
